


Moonlight let in

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [44]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Experimental Style, M/M, Return of Them Update
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-28 14:12:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19395796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern





	Moonlight let in

The light here, it was colder. 

Or, was it ending autumn, the snow of winter, ice and frost and the rushing salty swells of the sea, waves crashing upon the cliffs, beaches strewn with sea glass and the shards of the moon, crystalline and shimmered, up against the massive bleached bones of leviathans, strewn fossils and their empty eyes. Moonlight bounced, here it was an echoed thing, the fog and mist that swept up from the very ocean itself glimmering with a beauty that could not be named, nor put an understanding to. It was an awe striking thing, to stand upon one of these towering cliffs and to look about, see the waves of the sea, the barren beaches and then to turn, to view the pocket marked, powdery expanse of the new islands, risen and yet fallen, a lost halo to the whispers of a presence that still lingered.

That, of course, was only a found experience after the first day. The morning of the boat finally reaching shore, grating against the glittery sands, early dark light and the puff of fog clouds as the chill from the sea breezes cut through sodden salted clothing, and the sand here only stiffened the fabric, wearing it far faster than anything from the mainland.

Baring lava or teeth, of course. But here, on this alien land, there were other threats.

Dragons breath was far hotter, stinging more than the giants summer fiery, and the teeth here could grow far more than possible, mutate, disjoint into horrors almost too much for the mind to take. The lights of geysers, crystalline, rays that bounced off each other, continued in broken fractals that only wore down the mind the more the eyes attempted to take, this world had more to it than first originally thought, and in far more differing layers.

Setting camp, the tent up as evening drew to a close, night falling, a first, then second, to fifth, seventh, tenth, weeks amount of days, and it was almost hyperfocus, to be so intrigued. The anxiety grew in him, a dark pit, this outlandish state of being that he felt no comfort from, no familiarity, the lack of the fuel, and thus his lifeblood, from the very earths veins making his hysteria grow ever stronger, but in his companion grew a much different understanding.

The mans intrigue was pricked, enormous frothing curiosity even, something that he has always known, what he had preyed upon from the beginning, and now here, off the main world, his world, off the boat, stepping moon prints into the powdery soil, it was a hungry thing, this search for knowledge. He watched him as the days passed, helped him even, busying the hands even as his heart hammered in his throat and his worries piled upon each other, jumping from the slightest of vague threats, but even as he diminished in the moonlight his acquaintance only glowed ever brighter.

His curiosity was being hand fed, and it was a slow growing fascination, to watch the self proclaimed scientist experiment, hypothesis and tinker and create, scribbling his illiterate word attempts as he unscrambled the mystery of the moonborn land. His own aged hands took to deciphering, clearing the chicken scratch, anointing and elegantly translating the almost mad ranting and rambles given to him on a daily basis, and the journals they both wrote upon only grew more and more, the details changing, to more in depth and then back as answers were given yet allowed more questions to come to light.

Soon enough, an eventual change, as he dutifully rewrote his partners antics and then, in almost afterthought, began to shift from professionalism to a form of storytelling. His own quotes snuck through, here or there, sometimes a few sentences to a paragraph, and soon enough he found himself sitting there, noting his companions observations loyalty, while at the same time flowing the words together to illustrate the man himself, what he was doing, the way he moved his hands as he talked, the fluctuation of his voice and tone in explanation, the way his face lit up in excitement, curiosity, fascination, and, at the rarest of times, the glow when a smile was turned to the writer, the wrinkles of his face and the absolute grinning that pulled at the lips, his greasy hair and the odd grey slip of frazzling.

At times, the author sometimes dabbled, and his own words illustrated the warmth in his chest, the upturn of his own face and the flutter threatening his breath, at seeing his companion so.

These logs, now, they were piled carefully, older, more dry variations set back, chests and haphazardly made crates carefully protecting the fragile pages from the salt licked wind, from the souring sands or blazing bleach crystal light, from the very moon itself perhaps. Their little encampment became something more lived in, wearing with their presence, the cold winds of the sea only darkening ever chiller when winter graced the island, summer much more temperate, sometimes even lax in comparison to the blaze of mainland weather.

One such journal noted a particularly pleasant evening, sitting at the edges of beach meeting cliff, edge dipped low to the swishing water before the started geographic climb into sheer towers, and the words, written by a shaky, but elegant hand, detailed a warm picture.

Of a man, sitting upon the edge of the very moon, dipping his toes into the glittering water, the sun as it dipped low on the horizon, started to be swallowed up by the far reaching sea, and the salt swept dark hair, the wind beaten wrinkles lightened in a laugh at a witty joke, a warm, comforting smile.

The writer moves on to speak of how the suns slow death looks on a moon lighted island, the display of flashing colors and beautiful wreaths, auras floating in the shimmer of glass and crystal, yet annotated notes and details still remained, of the wide, wondrous gaze leveled upwards, the chill blowing in from out of sea bringing them close together, the briefest of mentions, of two hands clasping together after a slow crawl over powdery sand.

The passage is concluded with the author remarking on the beauty that he must have missed in those first days here, of the wonders this land could give, yet it seems as if some of his words were not of the island itself, but upon a figure he looked upon more often than not.

These spiraling writings were not all of an almost happiness. The island was not a steady, safe world, not at all.

Words on the beasts, some even shredded by virtue of too much curiosity, marked up by mistakes, detailed monsters different from those already well known. Monstrous hounds now split themselves apart, just as ferocious if not more so, and clay clad arachnids crawled from twitching corpse mounds, skewing the very earth as if of one, hungry, entity. 

One such entry, marred by darkened blood, sheened by the islands powdery dust, was of a more frantic telling. The hand was shaky, more so of desperation than disuse, speaking of having little medical knowledge, running on little to no sleep, the stress as trembling hands roamed over bleeding out wounds, tried to follow the wheezed slow directions sputtered out at him even as night fell, even as the hounds second oozing corpses attracted flies, as the moonlit world grew dark and fearful and full of panicked pain.

Scribbling, on amulets and effigies, on the lack of such things, a terror as the author made an attempt to address the situation via a written account before breaking into whispered thin worries, fears, of being left here alone after so long, of having the one at his side torn away by hound teeth and far too much blood.

But soon after these words lightened, the fear was drawn back, bottled once more, and eventually word broke through the dates with talk of his companion back on his feet, back into questioning and answering, learning, and the next time the hounds were mentioned it was in a passage detailing the preparations going much smoother.

There were no words to illustrate the screaming, the hissing anger as a sword swept through the dead monstrosities for a third time, the kicking and cursing as frustrated stress vented into vandalizing the creatures corpses, the worry of his partners health bleeding into a violence he took out upon the attackers, before it was with a harsh breath that the bodies were tossed, shoved off from the cliffs, to join into the salted sea. Eventually those bones were to drift to shore, but the journal entries said nothing of the author, standing there on the cliff edge, teetering as he looked upon the sinking corpses, panting for breath and hands shaking, the knowledge of the other mans beaten bloody form in the tent, the shaking knowledge that he may not even survive another day settling almost too heavily for him to stand, his chest filling with lead. No words were written, in how the outburst had not eased the pain even the slightest. He had feared for the other mans life, and nothing was inked into those pages, of sitting by his side, clasping to a hand tightly and waiting the long nights out, listening to each and every breath inhaled and exhaled.

But words picked up once more, detailed the odd crystal flowers that spread and grew as full moon came and went, the high waves that crashed against the coast, flooded tides far up the beaches, left behind more and more bleached bones to scavenge, pick up and study.

Most were of beast, some unknown sea creatures and other drowned land animal, sometimes even the hollow sticks of bird. Every once in awhile, a note was made on human remains, a skull here, ribs there, sometimes nothing more than a metacarpal or a lone tooth. Those, the author explained, were identified by his companion, and in the end there were words spoken, written on graves, farther inland, overlooking the sea.

He wrote of it being unnecessary, yet also of the sadness that dawned, slow and steady, on the other man, and thus nothing more was argued upon. On one page in particular, haphazard and shaky, a scribble of sorts even, was the drawn image of mounds and their crystal carved tombstones, sometimes sticks, ink splattered and scrawled in a mess. The authors strong suit, it would seem, was not quite strengthened in sketched art.

But the doodles continued, in the corners of pages, sometimes scribbled wiggles, sometimes a bit more detailed. The author was more inclined into his words, but these images remained all the same.

In one of the newer, thicker journals, well taken care of, filled with more words on the world than the technical question and answer of past works, one whole page had been dedicated to attempted sketches. A face peered out, more than one but of the same, yet the author never seemed to get the visual right, starting again at another corner, another edge or line, and the ink was blotted deep but eyes shone out all the same, a warm smile and a rugged aftershave, or perhaps even growing out beard. 

The companion of the author shown out in the written accounts, by both detailed words and the shy shivering of almost full sketches. In turn, the author made no such attempt at doing so for himself.

In the books made by the scientist, scribbled and almost as if written by a hand which could no longer hold a pencil familiarly, it seemed as if attempts were made. But, as documented by the other author, bone claws greatly interfered with the act of writing and drawing, and soon these thrown together journals were abandoned in favor of only the odd scribble or line into the newer, improved documents.

Sometimes they were signed, sometimes they were not, but the accounts only had the two of them and that was all that was needed.

These words documented ranges far and low, from the island to companionship to the birds and beasts, sometimes notes far too impersonal to almost intimate.

One page bore notes as if to each other, the page loose, as if shoved into the book itself for safekeeping. Words, written in asking of gathering new supplies, of where one was going or where they'd be for a few hours, on what was for dinner, or even questions on what should be made for supper. The interactions between both sets of handwriting ranged from almost strict professionalism to something almost domestic at times, yet all the same it was a shaky history of sorts.

The journals could never recount the tales as they had been, not truly. Their author was a biased man, the scientist even more so at times, and it told what it could, written at first for strangers and then, eventually, only for each other, for themselves. Yet even then, not everything is spoken of.

Full moons were of interest, yet not as detailed on the exact dates. Notes were taken, yet left all the more cryptic for it. The journals, unfortunately, were left largly undocumented in this event, even upon this moon glittered island that it truly was of.

But, the indescribable made writing all the harder for old, shaking hands. True sight, under blazing clarity, the opening of the eyes to the world around, the reality of self and each other, was too much to even consider explaining.

It could not be described, to watch the full moon finally rise and to look upon ones companion and to find someone so different, yet essential as them, beside you instead.

Nothing could be written, could be told from the authors mind or even voice, recounting the nights where the darkness was pulled away, and it was as if the light helped shed forms into something far too true.

His companion was his companion, still, tried true, yet he could never describe it in full, the act of seeing the inner core of a person, a man laid bare by the moonlight. The knowledge of the same being done to him, the peeling away of protective covers, masks, just to uncover the sniveling weak thing that was him, as it always has, and always will be, had almost done him in then and there, and the books would have never been continued had it followed through with this terrible threat.

But hands not his own found him, clasped together, bone talons twining with brittle fingers, and the man he had sailed here with was more than that, was more than a scientist even, under the moons fullest of lights.

The journals had warm intimacy mentioned in them, at times, but nothing more. The full moon, in turn, brought about much more that was never mentioned.

Of hands in the glowing dark, a warm tent and the light of the moon seeping through, hot breath panted together and the twisting, grasping pull of skin to skin, palms dragged up backs and twisting tight into thick greasy hair, talons trailing blazing lines as to map bony ribs and hips. Sometimes it was of sound, panting breath, gasping exclamations and moans muffled into shoulders, clinging together as the light brought with it a clarity.

Cold clarity, but that melted as cores saw through layers of who the other was, who they masked, hid themselves as, and when eyes met in glassy awareness and bodies rocked in rhythms dictated by the tides of the encompassing moon, they saw each other as plain as day, more so then they ever would ever again.

Sometimes, there was a note made, rare and small, hidden away in dates following the full moons footsteps. They were light things, little things, mixed by both companions in elegant shaky writings and the jumbled scrawl of dulled talons.

Content bits, whispered happiness perhaps, marvels at sparks in eyes or the warm softness of palms, compliments in a remembered tone or the smoothing affection detailing something close enough to be a kiss, yet not so bluntly admitted. As if both fought a losing battle, in doing so losing themselves to each other.

The works left on the moon swept islands were documented poems at times, especially in later and later versions, odes to each other, to scientist or author each. Scribbled images, gifts almost, made as if not to be found by any other, and in the end that was perhaps what was believed.

The campsite now lay abandoned, salt and dusty powder rising to swallow it all away in ages to come, if the island itself does not become one with the ocean or moon once more. Nothing was left behind to point where the former occupants now were, on if they passed at some point or even left the plane altogether. Chests are still full of artifacts, books left open, a tent with bundled furs and shared blankets, the softness of kept gifts and crafted oddities handled with care, from one pair of hands to the other in affectionate consideration. The last remaining journals did not lead to much, did not build up with an ending, only documented slowing days, comforting talk, sitting together to watch the sun set, and thus in the end rise.

It was as if the both of them had vanished, right in the middle of a day some time long passed, going about together as they were wont to do now. As if, for one reason or another, they had taken hands with each other, held together close, and left in the ways unfathomable to the mortal mind and its existing coil.

Not even the journals could shed light in this new mystery, from the moon born island and its glittery crystal surface, in all its wonders, its beautiful sparkling sunsets and blooming shined sunrises, its wondrous full moons that shone the true self in all its mortal glory. The lunar islands held their mysteries, their secrets, and perhaps somewhere elsewhere, far far away, there sat two men, side by side and clasping hands close, smiling in each others company all the while, untouched by the dark of shadows now, content in more ways than they ever could have imagined.

Almost too good to be true, but perhaps all that was needed. The world works in mysterious ways, and perhaps it spared souls at times, enough to give them a happiness they never even dreamed for themselves.

A reprieve, forever and ever, to the hungry darkness. A light, eternal, to the night.

And smiles, glowing warm, hands clasped tight, and it was all that could be given, in the end, nothing more, nothing less.

Nothing more, nothing less.


End file.
